Sunday, July 31, 2016

The Body Shame versus The Slut Shame

"I told you these breast-implanted women were a fucking nuisance to more than just the radiologist looking for cancer on a mammogram," I swivel around in my chair to see if Belinda is listening to me.

She isn't.

I will never get her to the gym now.

We are at our respective computers reading the same news item regarding a porno-programmed Play Mate human-hybrid: part skin and bones, part plastic and wax, part adipose tissue, part botulism – spreading the unattractive contents of her cadaver brain for all to witness. No one wants to see that, Dani Mathers. No one. You've confused body parts. Stick with what you know. You hit below the belt with a body shame and I'll throw my hat in with a slut shame. It's a give and take, rolling with the punches. We're living in a ring.

Belinda is also confused, rendering her momentarily speechless, which isn't unusual when a girl's illusions are shattered or worst fears realized. Although she once rated and compared herself with all the magazine-beautiful girls as much as anyone else born into a world that wrapped you in pink and stuck a bow on your head like a foregone conclusion, Belinda has learned to suppress and detach from such critical thoughts about both herself and others.

She adopts the stance of a hopeless believer in the innate goodness of humankind, despite extraordinary evidence to the contrary, and gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. She, for example, does not want to judge another woman's choice, whether saline or silicone, if that's what it takes to prevent a body dysmorphic sufferer from killing herself. All of us, the physically imperfect, have to find ways to cope under the magnifying glass of the "male gaze" and the scrutiny of female insecurity. To each her own. Diversity. Do not judge.

It's a pleasant worldview, but not exactly a realistic one which I sometimes feel the need to point out. It, however, takes a great deal of effort on my part to break through her carefully constructed denial. She never at first believes malicious gossip is true or that a monstrous pair of tits is fake. It just seems so dishonest to her and therefore defies her belief system. Besides, there have always been well-endowed women, she argues.

She herself had a breast reduction and cannot for the life of her imagine why anyone, barring a psychiatric problem, would intentionally have her normally proportioned breasts inflated to a back-breaking, logic-defying tourist attraction from which no one can look away. I tell her I think that's the point.


Initially upon reading how Dani Mathers publicly body-shamed and violated some unsuspecting woman at the gym, it seems counter-intuitive that a surgically-augmented ditz skilled in the selfie and other mentally taxing activities such as removing her clothes, who makes a living off the easily exploitable rape fantasies of delusional men, would reveal the flabby, unexercised parts of herself to a viral audience. A neglected mind is an ugly thing.

But then I suppose the aesthetically unappealing human brain with its capacity for higher cognitive functioning is a pointless vestigial organ to a person whose conditioning has her convinced she actually wants to transform herself into an intellectually-stunted sex object who speaks in vacuous Playboy sound bites meant to milk the oozing bodily fluids of a multitude of spasmodic men with back hair and a wallet  all the Zika-carrying semen, blood-tinged chlamydia mucus,  gonorrhea pus, saliva, nose snot, masturbatory sweat and laboured breathing a young businesswoman who went to the trouble of a 33 Double D could ever hope for. No matter, no penis-holding man worth his genital wart was interested in your brain or character anyway.

It turns out a person, male or female, does not necessarily have to be wise to make big money. If reality TV, the cult of celebrity and the financial crisis of 2008 have taught us anything, it's that.  You only have to be an unscrupulous asshole with ambition, an opportunity, and a willingness to prostitute your dignity for a price. If you're female that indignity includes having your chest stuffed like an overfed, hormone-injected factory chicken kept in a tiny, cramped cage and raised purely for slaughter and later mastication, with a preference for genetically mutated breast meat.


Now, I'm not sure if you can call the smug malice of an adult woman in a pair of infantile bunny ears, who conforms to an objectified ideal that fuels sexual assault and reinforces internalized misogyny while simultaneously proclaiming she's a "rebel" news exactly, so much as confirmation of what Belinda, in spite of her rose-colored glasses, already suspected and what I already knew.

Apparently, like many if not all women socialized through the ages in a sexist world obsessed with the physical appearance and sexual viability of every female born, Belinda's "spectacles"  do come off, regardless of her aforementioned wall of denial, and despite confidence in every other sphere of existence, when her own body image is the object of consideration. It's challenging enough keeping internal criticism at bay, even with a wall, without adding the external pressure of a gym full of what Belinda suspects are impossibly gorgeous and therefore cruel people looking down their perfectly symmetrical noses at her. 

As for me, I was not in denial that people like Mathers existed in the world, particularly in a gym, but was trying to keep this knowledge from Belinda in the hopes of one day convincing her to go to a spin class with me. The class, though, is held in a gym, which Belinda sees as a meat market she vows to never set foot in, whatever I plead. She does not have any desire to feel like a piece of meat, thank you very much, especially a piece of meat that might be judged unworthy of consumption.


"Don't be ridiculous," I lie to her, "no one is looking at anyone. You go for health reasons, that's all. No one cares what you look like, they're too busy working out. Besides, every body type, shape and size is at the gym. Everyone is made to feel welcome".

Belinda eyes me doubtfully. "Aren't there mirrors everywhere? I don't want to be looking at myself, never mind have anyone else look at me!"

I again tell her she's being ridiculous; she's beautiful and has nothing to worry about. But the truth is that there are indeed mirrors everywhere and it is indeed traumatizing for a girl with body image issues, whether real or perceived. I would rather not go there myself, but it's the only place that offers spin classes, the one indoor workout I enjoy that doesn't require skilled coordination, much interaction with others and isn't boring. Even so, I'd prefer if someone went with me to share in the burden of humiliation.

I hate drawing attention to myself as it is without going to a gym. If I could have one superpower it would be invisibility. As it happens, most of the time I attend one of these spin classes, I do draw attention to myself by being late. 

My tardiness is disruptive and causes everyone to stare with disapproval. To make matters worse, there's usually something wrong with the bike I'm left with, such as a squeaky wheel or a seat that won't adjust, and this too is disruptive as the music is turned down and everyone looks around to see who has the squeaky wheel this time. It's me. It's always me. Why even question it?

I've also been known to fall off the bike in the process of getting on or off it, and it isn't uncommon for me to whack my head on the handlebars or drop my water bottle and splash water everywhere. 

Once, the pedal broke right off just as I was standing up, causing injury, excruciating pain and more disruption. Another time, I did the entire class with my t-shirt on inside out, and I'm pretty sure the trio of fit, young women, who frequent the same class without breaking a sweat, all of them appropriately tattooed like cattle with an owner and g-stringed like strippers with a UTI, think I am mentally challenged. 

They, for instance, will turn during one of my signature disruptions and with the furrowed brow of pseudo-sympathy marring their otherwise lovely features, watch as I fumble around or get my foot stuck in the pedal strap.

On occasion, the least attractive of the three will be so moved by the pitiful sight of me that she will rush to my aid. Her charitable act of the day. She might, for example, notice me struggling with the lever to adjust my seat and take it upon herself to save me from further embarrassment. 

She'll ask if I need help in the carefully enunciated words one uses when attempting to communicate with the hard-of-hearing or the cognitively impaired. Then without waiting for my answer, which would be a resounding no, please stop noticing me, she takes over. 

I awkwardly stand there feeling like an idiot until she successfully works the lever and the seat is adjusted. It's not adjusted to the height I want, but now I feel like I'll hurt her feelings if I redo what she just did. She seems so pleased with herself for helping me, the invalid. So whatever, let's just get this hell over with. I'm generous like that. I don't like hurting people's feelings if I can help it. If you're an asshole, that's a different story. 

Superficial women consumed not only with their own appearances, but with deriding the appearance of those deemed cosmetically "less fortunate" or somehow morally bankrupt in the case of weight gain, aren't necessarily thoughtless assholes like Dani Mathers; they are products of a culture that commodifies the female body and socializes girls to be predominantly outward-focused at the expense of developing other more meaningful aspects of personhood, such as empathy, inner strength and enlightenment.

Until you have some awareness of the cultural, religious and other forces that shape your thinking, it's difficult to undergo the kind of paradigm shift that would prevent you in the first place from snapping an unsolicited picture of a naked woman in the shower and then sharing it on social media for widespread ridicule, possibly jeopardizing said woman's safety and sense of self-worth.

I don't know if the mass of public outrage, job loss and possible criminal charges Mathers faces for what she did is enough to shift her thinking and behavior, but it's doubtful that a pornographic model who boasts of being a "sexual deviant" as if it's a noteworthy accomplishment is going to be shifting anything but some paying man's scrotum.

Saturday, May 28, 2016

Her Battered Mind

Somewhere in the dark recesses of her battered mind,
Was a lost fleck of ego she thought she'd never find.
She gave up the search and her outlook grew bleak;
The storm in her head reached a dangerous peak.

She walked around buried alive from within,
Choking on air, nails clawing under skin.
She bore the torture but wanted it to cease,
She craved some sort of eternal release.

A corpse inside a living body she would soon be,
If she didn't put a permanent end to her misery.
But before she could take matters into her own hands,
She heard a voice giving outrageous commands.

It told her to change her thinking and give it a rest,
But with gun in hand, she cried she couldn't endure one more test.
But its calm persistence made her ask why in a tone quiet and flat,
And it replied because she was worth it, as simple as that.

She can't say how or whence the voice came,
Whether ego, delusion, or God, it's all just the same.
But she knows to this day when her mood darkens the light,
There's a bright spark in her waiting and willing to fight.

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Kevin O'Leary's Utopian Fantasy: Fantastic Poverty

You wait and wait for the perfect man to come along. Then suddenly he does, like a mythical villain straight out of Harry Potter. It's surprising at first, even though you've been expecting him - the utter absurdity of the man so surreal you have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not lost in giddy hallucination.

The boredom of your wait has gone on for so long you've grown accustomed to nothing happening and thought perhaps you'd have to settle for someone less appealing to your carnivorous tastes, someone like Justin Trudeau.

You're disappointed. You can't really sink your teeth into a Justin. While his various blunders and mildly cringe-worthy attempts at humor seem, at first presentation, like adequate fodder, his liberal views, boyish charm, obvious love and loyalty for wife, family and country, as well as his impressive knowledge of classical poetry, leave you wanting.

What good fortune for those in power that people do not think ~ Adolf Hitler
The ironically self-titled "Voledmort of Capitalism", Kevin O'Leary, on the other hand is another animal altogether. He is intoxicating enough to tickle your palate and get the blood pumping into a head-pounding frenzy. You can rip into a Kevin with voracious abandon, minus the guilt, and bask fully satiated in the afterglow.

Indeed, after years of making a spectacle of himself on television and radio, in addition to the hollow capitalist propaganda and self-branding he spews like a bald, polyester-wearing used car salesman in gold-plated chains, O'Leary comes prepackaged with a titillating list of satirical ingredients before he's even done anything yet, other than "suggest" in his usual ridiculous style a potential interest in the Conservative Party leadership race.



It's a delectable list of ingredients too - a gift from the gods of mockery. It includes a track record of "strategically" bloviating in interviews and written material, as well as in his role as a reality TV line-prodded investor puppet, who can't think for himself any deeper than looped catchphrases, such as "nut bar" or "nothing burger". He doesn't appear to read or critically consider anything that doesn't support his greedy biases and instead concentrates his intellectual "prowess" on deciding if , in his own words, this is "a TV moment or a money making moment".



The result of O'Leary's pervasive loose-lipped hubristic babble, willful ignorance, narcissism and contempt for the downtrodden of this world is a body of material that reveals him for the slave he is - a man shackled to the cult of self, who prostrates at the alter of greed and calls it freedom.

With this illusion of freedom on his side, he feels completely justified hurling cheap, degrading insults at fellow human beings, expressing bigoted opinions, displaying poor insight, inferior intelligence, questionable judgment, equivocal integrity, spectacular grandiosity, indifference to the suffering of others, and a bizarre, almost fanatical worship of money - the kind of fanaticism normally reserved for the religious zealot.

He christens himself "The Merchant of Truth" and refers to money in the language of totalitarian theocracy,  ordaining it "Absolute" with a capital A, preaching that it's a "fixed law", like the law of gravity, and claiming it as "the blood of life".

O'Leary goes so far as to say that "the only thing that matters in life is money" and you must "sacrifice everything, including your mother if you have to, for financial glory". He views dollars and cents as holy "soldiers", a personal army he sends out to pillage and rape. Those he sees as financially "stupid" he calls "cockroaches" and snickers, pleased with how witty he seems to think he is.

It also pleases him to frequently make mention of shooting both people and animals, execution style, and sending them to hell, on what authority one can only imagine. Upon hearing such irreverence, though done in jest,  it is difficult for you (as the absurdist writing this) to stop your mind from wandering to images of Nazi death squads shooting mothers who use their own bodies to protect and comfort their children at death, just as they did at birth.

Mother holding her child close just before being shot by a Nazi.

O'Leary, in contrast to you (at least on this point), laughs about all this cockiness.  He thinks his divination of money and flippancy towards the sanctity of life is a joke, and he a clever wordsmith, not seeing that he is the joke, one put on television to dance for meaningless pennies at the cloven hoof of infernal amusement.

Hades awaits.

In the meantime, as the underworld stands by anticipating the inevitability of his death, our hapless lost soul defends the Golden Calf with the fervor of a Stockholm hostage clinging to his captor, and the conviction of a Jim Jones follower selling live monkeys door-to-door in the hopes of generating seed capital for a shiny new Church of Avarice. Its ornate gates, of course, open to only a select "elite" who take great delight in slamming the door on the desperate faces of starving children, environmental refugees and wounded victims of terror. There are 3.5 billion people living in poverty? Fantastic! Incentive!



When O'Leary isn't celebrating abject destitution or confronted with other poverty related statistics, an Oxfam report, the widening chasm between the haves and have-nots and how such gross inequality is actually bad for the economy of a country, or really any of a myriad of global woes and inhumanity that can be traced back to the same wealth-hoarding of a cruel few at the expense of an anguished many, he explodes in plutocratic indignation.


He has the moronic audacity to angrily accuse genuine social justice advocates, activists, writers and academics of promoting theft. He sarcastically, in his signature emotionally-charged, straw man style of lowly thought and hyperbole, asks if we should just go ahead then and "kill" all the uber-rich one percenters and "steal" their hard-earned coffers for the "crime" of being successful.

Those who refuse to rise to the bait of O'Leary's inanity and would like to find real solutions to the catastrophic inequality, exploitation and environmental damage crippling our precious planet and creating needless mass-scale human misery, "Mr. Wonderful" accuses of being "left wing nutbars" and "communists". He believes they are nothing but Robin Hood style anarchists and thieves who aim to take from the deserving rich and give to the undeserving poor. There is nothing original here: It is the go-to script of the crony capitalist bent on keeping the dumbed down masses docile and the free thinking minority muzzled, which no one disseminates quite like the late satirical master George Carlin.

As for O'Leary, he clearly has no empathy for the struggle of another, claiming people deserve what they get. They should have worked harder like his white male privilege allowed him to worker harder and maybe they wouldn't be so hungry. Maybe they too could enjoy a $13,000 dinner on a whim. What weary fools! Fools with skeletal arms too weak to lift the weight of an emaciated body out of shallow desert graves, as some philanthropic billionaire psychopath dangles sustenance out of reach but within sight, as encouragement.

Crack open your blistered lips, speak from your parched mouths and network! Market yourself even though you were never exposed to the kinds of educational opportunities and upbringings that would prepare you to speak in the language of Kevin O'Leary's Capitalism-Without-a-Social-Conscience: A worldview that ruthlessly commodifies absolutely everything, including life itself.

And commodify all of Canada, without mercy, is exactly what Kevin O'Leary would aim to do if, in this Age of Absurdity, Celebrity and Idiocy, he was actually successful in his bid to one day become Prime Minister, as ludicrous as that may sound ~ ludicrous, that is, if not for the mind-boggling ascent of O'Leary's Mother Ship, Donald Trump.



If O'Leary did accomplish his diabolical plot to invade and subjugate Canadian democracy, he has said on more than one occasion that as Prime Minister he'd draw a yearly salary of $50 million. He figures that providing the "CEO of Canada" such outrageous compensation, in addition to offering huge incentives to "bureaucrats" who cut costs and save "him" money, will create "incredible competition" for government positions from the "private sector". The ideal recipe that history, by the way, teaches us leads to violent revolution brought on by an impoverished underclass with nothing left to lose, and culminating in the fall of mighty empires and their kleptocratic rulers.



But like all villains, O'Leary is too arrogant to think the lessons of history apply to him and has unwittingly revealed the conceptual stages of an economic plan that would essentially turn Canada into an oligarchy. He brazenly states that he would order everyone in every department to "find me a dollar of savings and you're going to keep 50 cents of that for yourself."

He is certain this will attract the best entrepreneurial minds: his alien spawn unburdened by the inner fire of a higher purpose, or the ideals of a caring democracy that works towards dignity, justice, opportunity, freedom and reasonable prosperity for all.

This is alarming because when accumulation of wealth at any cost, regardless of human or ecologic toll is the single objective of a governing body, the vulnerable and marginalized among us are reduced to nothing more than byproduct - an annoyance, waste to be thrown in an ever-expanding, sulfuric tailings pond of uncontrollable pollution and despair.

And sure enough, O'Leary sounds downright joyful at the thought of all the needless infrastructure he'd burn like "unnecessary bridges", or the unions he'd make illegal and our union brothers and sisters he'd "put in jail" (he actually said this), as well as the "stupid social programs" he'd eliminate if he ever became Prime Minister.



He further says with the calculated relish of a sadist cradling a vendetta, "Do you have any idea how much slashing and hacking and cutting of costs I'll do?" It's a rhetorical question. He does not seem particularly interested in dissident opinions that conflict with his narrow point of view.

When presented with such opinions, he  indiscriminately uses the same logical fallacies and intellectually dishonest debate tactics employed by any unthinking, hair-triggered schoolyard bully, no matter the credentials of the person to whom he speaks. He does not bother to take the time to know or research the validity of his opponents' arguments and doesn't worry about how patently dumb he comes across. If anything, he seems proud of his lazy ad hominems and willful ignorance. Philistine.



He argues in the same childish, name-calling manner whether he's interrupting his co-host, Amanda Lang, to yell over her thoughtful commentary, debating 14-year-old Rachel Parent (albeit an incredibly articulate and well-informed 14-year-old) over the world-saving "merits" of GMOs, or "discussing" with Pulitzer prized journalist, Chris Hedges, the ideological legitimacy behind the Occupy Wall Street movement, or the world-saving "merits" of what Hedges would call the pathology of "unfettered capitalism", and O'Leary would simply enthuse is "great!"

Unfettered capitalism is a revolutionary force that consumes greater and greater numbers of human lives until it finally consumes itself ~ Chris Hedges

Given O'Leary's callous disregard for others, especially those in need, while simultaneously congratulating himself, could any rational person ever envisage such a man, who freely uses racist expressions such as "Indian giver", come across as anything but disingenuous when addressing the nation after a senseless human tragedy like the recent La Loche shootings of northern Saskatchewan?

This is particularly egregious, in light of O'Leary's worldview, when one looks at the community of La Loche as a prime example of what happens when a country ignores and does not adequately nurture its most vulnerable until they can stand on their own two feet, while at the same time awarding massive concessions to those who are already flourishing.

The truth is that in a fair society dedicated to the principles of basic human rights, decency, kindness and opportunity open to all, there is nothing "fantastic" about poverty, which ultimately affects everyone, not merely those directly impacted. There is also nothing "fantastic" about poverty's accompanying ailments of addiction, hunger, poor physical health, reduced cognitive ability, dismal coping skills, mental disorders, violence, suicide, incest, child molestation and rape.

There is finally, unless O'Leary sincerely does desire hell on earth, nothing "fantastic" about the long-reaching social, psychological and mental consequences of intergenerational trauma and cultural erosion seen in the First Nations people of Canada. Consequences a government apology without the helping hand of action and the vocal outrage of a concerned citizenry is going to do sweet fuck all to correct.

But a man of O'Leary's ilk, who incidentally purports to admire another vile piece of filthy rot on his way to damnation, the Sultan of Brunei, has no interest in correcting injustice.  If anything, these abominations masquerading as men revel in the torment and agony of innocent life.

To be wealthy and honored in an unjust society is a disgrace ~ Confucius

The only thing that could make you, as again the absurdist,  anticipate the dark flavors and rich aromas of O'Leary's fatuity and perdition any more than you already do is a sex scandal, or possibly an Ashley Madison honorable mention, courtesy of a renegade hacktivist or group with the thunder-struck finesse of Zeus (Impact Team, whom or whatever you are, We Salute You).



It after all is not such a far-fetched notion that O'Leary would be a cheating sleazebag: He has already proven himself a man of mixed loyalties by largely ignoring his matrimonial Canadian roots and concentrating his philandering interests on a preferential American mistress named Boston - his favorite place to call "home" for the past 20 odd years. Traitor.

As far as the possibility of hidden debauchery and bought silence, this too is not so far-fetched. He fits the profile of a libertine: In addition to his overall lustful creepiness, he has no problem using his vast wealth to buy whatever pleasure he fancies, presumably that includes fleshy, silicone-injected females. He further fits the profile as a man past his physical prime, who is missing most of his hair, and most telling, one of his many troubling monikers is "Uncle Kevin". He is in addition a bombastic, self-gratifying without restraint, light-skinned guy of worldly status and celebrity fame, who is small in stature and has an obvious Napoleon complex.



He also not only has the smarmy smile of a lech and the kind of horrific wealth that morally corrupts, if you've followed him over the years on first Dragons' Den and then Shark Tank, like all the male investors preening on stage, particularly the married ones, "Uncle Kevin" can barely contain the panting and slobbering that threatens to escape his self-control the second a half-naked girl who either is the pitch or has something to pitch is paraded in front of him.

This is especially the case when these young women exhibit the same old staid female bells, whistles and augmentations prized by heterosexual males with the cave-dweller mentality of a Sasquatch and the little brain of a peacock.

He, as well, at the age of 57 took a 2-year "break" from his wife of many years, who apparently stood dutifully by while he messed around. Women REALLY need to stop giving men a free pass like this. It just makes our entire gender look weak and stupid. Never surrender your dignity. When you do, you take what is priceless and make it worthless.

In any case, safely separated from his wife, "Mr. Wonderful" could thus party (and we all know what that means) and jet set without shame, as feigned as that obviously would be, since he has claimed many times that for him money is more important than his wife, children, mother or even life itself.

And if the above isn't convincing enough, there is the fact he bribed the Premier of Alberta, Rachel Notley, with a $1 million investment in Canadian oil if she resigns. This then would indicate he is not averse to using his obscene wealth to silence women and make them do what he wants. 

The indomitable Notley, however, was not swayed. She laughed in the hideous face of Voledmort the Capitalist and quipped with the flair of J.K. Rowling herself, “You know, the last time a group of wealthy businessmen tried to tell Alberta voters how to vote, I ended up becoming Premier." 

It would be interesting to know if O'Leary, the "brilliant" "Voledmort of Capitalism", realizes that like most archetypal bad guys, Voldemort's arrogance and lust for power ultimately lead to his downfall.



Thursday, January 7, 2016

Leftover Brussels: Lesser Cousins of a Better Creed

The leftovers waited patiently,
In the fridge for their turn.
They did not harbor resentment,
Nor was their banishment of concern.

Except for the sprouts,
Consumed with worry and doubt.
They knew they emitted a terrible stench,
Like rotten eggs and old sauerkraut.

Yams consoled Brussels with sage advice:
Sure, they were the lesser cousins of a better creed,
But rest assured, ALL the leftovers would be
Sought after by gluttony and greed.

The vegetables and their sauces,
Gravy and sausage dressing too,
Congealed under plastic wrap,
Between the mayo jar and last week's stew.

Cranberries, potatoes and turkey
Cooled in the old Frigidaire.
The whipping cream and pumpkin pie
Sat idly by without a care.

But as the leftovers leisurely gossiped
In the crisp Freon atmosphere,
Brussels foresaw a hopeless destiny:
"We're never getting out of here!"

The sprouts had been overcooked,
And gave off a rancid smell.
They would be the only leftover
The gluttons would repel.

The other leftovers humored Brussels,
While furtively rolling their esculent eyes.
Then just as predicted they heard muffled voices,
"You get the turkey, I'll get the pies!"

They could hear clanging glass,
And the fridge door creaking.
With a flood of light the gluttons had arrived,
Whispering and sneaking.

Leftovers were piled onto plates,
And promptly microwaved…
Except for the Brussels sprouts,
Left in the fridge to rot as they ranted and raved.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

The Love struck Fool

The love struck fool stumbles and falls –
Tasty game for the One who enthralls.
Easy prey for the necrotic heart,
Of a predatory feline acting a part.

He's a squirrel lured to nest on the open sea,
Love is a sleek fin that encircles hungrily.
But he wasn't made to endure the ocean's roar,
As it ripples and heaves against the ragged shore.

He's lulled by the gentle pull of the tides,
Flesh prickles with wanting as Love collides.
He swoons at the glint of a sharp tooth,
Love continues her courtship lithe and couth.

He yields his mind to appease a primal urge;
Love swiftly closes in with rapturous surge.
She lunges to enrapture her helpless feed –
A fool consumed by his own love sick need.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Existential Crisis at 7-Eleven

It feels like I am faced with rude, not particularly observant, condescending zombie-people in all aspects of my trivial existence. No doubt some of this feeling can be attributed to my own hang-ups, but my insecurities do not account for EVERYTHING.

For example, I was recently asked to get a pack of matches from the local 7-Eleven.

I agreed to get these matches even though I am opposed to the reason these matches were needed in the first place, but whatever. I have my own vices to direct my judgment towards. I will try not to be a hypocrite.

On the other hand, hypocrisy is sometimes a necessary evil, like little white lies or the mildly despicable  things one resorts to when the circumstances of her life force her to live in survival mode. Live or die is also a choice.


“Don't call me crazy.I'm a survivor. I do what I have to do to survive.” 

― The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

Besides, the particular vice in question, smoking, is one I myself was able to overcome cold turkey over a decade ago through mindfulness (before it was a trendy catch phrase) and will power (probably a bit of divine intervention thrown in there too, but who knows).

It is therefore a challenge for my brain to be empathetic to the 12-step addiction dogma that says you are powerless – it’s a challenge because I know it’s not true. To be clear, this is not to suggest there is no such thing as transcendence or something bigger than us; only that it is false to believe we are utterly powerless. We aren't. We still have the choice to, for example, light a cigarette, put it to our lips and inhale. 

Granted, if you are addicted to cigarettes, it can be a very difficult "choice" to quit, especially with so many biological, psychological and cognitive factors involved, factors most are not aware of, which further complicates the issue. How does one fight an enemy he or she does not realize exists?

Even so, it is still amazing to me what you will believe is impossible if you let your mind be led solely by outside forces, such as pop psychology, cultural "norms" or my pet peeve, the "celebrity class" (why people would ever want to emulate these freak-show celebrities, who belong in a zoo and have the intellect of a finger-puppet is beyond me). Grant those outside sources your consideration, by all means. Contemplate them, think critically, but if they don’t align with your intuition and sense of humanity, REJECT them. For the love of GOD.

You can quit an addiction whether to a substance or behavior and you can manage your emotions, thoughts and beliefs without pharmaceutical drugs or “therapeutic” brainwashing. But obviously you have to want to and be willing to endure a little suffering, knowing “this too will pass”, in order to achieve inner mastery. Not easy but still possible.

Try and convey this message to the average conditioned drone around here, though, and you’re met with a blank stare.  Still, I do understand why this is – the crutches of addiction, carnal indulgence, egocentrism and faulty belief often provide a far better quality of delusion or I mean life than facing the panic of this bizarre reality stone cold sober.




If you do attempt to go it alone without all the worldly baggage and chemical smokescreens, you risk having an existential crisis, and possibly losing your mind trying to make sense of the absurdity – the big fucking mystery of it all.

So forget it. I’ll get your stupid matches for you – enjoy your denial-encapsulated black lung. Me? I’ll take my chances with the existential crisis, perhaps with the occasional crutch because I too am mortal like everyone else, prone to injury, disease and hypocrisy, and in need of assistance from time to time, but ultimately I’ll come to my own conclusions about the nature of my reality.

Thus, with the above dissonance resonating in my head, I asked the cashier behind the counter at 7-Eleven for fuel and some matches.

“Do you want a book of matches?” she drawled, utterly uninterested in the human being (me) standing in front of her.

“Um…whatever you have is fine,” I answered, a little unsure of myself, “how much is a book of matches?”

She handed me an unopened box of 50 packs of matches and said, “Five cents”.

I took the box from her in that slow, hesitant way one does when confused that she has misunderstood something, but also simultaneously suspects it is the OTHER person who has it wrong.

“Do you want ME to open the box?” I asked, double-checking that I wasn’t indeed the one labouring under a misapprehension.

Now for the first time since this unpleasant interaction began, the woman looked directly at me and rolled her eyes, “Ahh, nooooo…you can open it yourself.”

She made a kind of snorting sound like I was the idiot and not her.

“So it’s five cents for this WHOLE box of matches?” I checked again.

The middle-aged woman sighed heavily, like a frazzled single mother of twelve with few options left, forced to work at a convenience store for minimum wage and snapped, “That’s what I said isn’t it? Duh.”

Well, isn’t SHE a bundle of hostile joy. But life has clearly dealt her a shitty hand, so I’ll try to remain calm. It’s okay, World, you can continue to use me as a fucking punching bag. The lifetime beating has hardened me, I can handle it.

“Yeah, okay, just checking,” I answered, feeling inexplicably chastised (okay, maybe I can’t handle it) by this dopey woman who evidently did not know the difference between an individual “book” of matches and an entire box of them.

That’s when the customer behind me, who had been listening to everything, eagerly chimed in, “I’ll get a couple ‘books’ of those matches, too!”

In the end, four of us left there with multiple unopened boxes of matches for 5 cents.

Normally I would still be suffering with guilt over “benefitting” from this woman’s ignorance, even with the way she treated me, but the matches weren’t for me. I did not benefit in any way and thus am exonerated of all guilt. 

Okay, I still do feel guilty.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

The Human Pincushion

Through a series of unfortunate accidents I dropped a box of pins and needles in a dimly lit area of my carpeted living room. Lizzy witnessed the whole thing and without moving to help me pick any of the pins up, knowingly said, “Dad’s going to step on one of those pins”.

“No”, I corrected as I desperately crawled around on my hands and knees, “we’re going to pick them all up. No one is going to step on a pin! Now please help me!”

I think she reluctantly picked up ONE pin, but upon doing so, shrieked in pain as if she had been stabbed with a harpoon and gave up.  She told me she was just a kid and it was dangerous for kids to pick up pins. Besides, she pointed out, she wasn’t the one who dropped them.

Insolent child.

Still, even without her assistance I thought I had gathered up all the pins.

I was wrong…as tends to happen.

Sure enough, a few days after I drop the pins, I get a frantic, angry phone call from John. He is in agony. He has stepped on a needle and it’s inserted so far into his foot that only the eye of the needle is poking out.

I can hear Lizzy, the little traitor, in the background saying, “I told mom this would happen.”

I don’t know why I’m the first person John calls in such situations. First remove the needle and if you need medical assistance, go to an Emergency Room. Do not call me. I cannot help you.

But of course he is not phoning for help or advice. He, with his little sidekick, Lizzy, is phoning to place blame.

In a barely controlled voice he asks me if I know why he stepped on a pin.

“Because you don’t look where you’re going?” I answer helpfully.

“NO!” he screams abandoning all pretence of self-control. “YOU dropped pins on the carpet and didn’t pick them up!”

My cell vibrates at the intensity of his rage.

“Where are you getting your information?” I ask, as if I don’t know.

“LIZZY told me!!!”

“Lizzy is 6,” I say, “who are you going to believe, a 6 year old or a grown adult?”

John cannot believe my lack of contrition and yells, “The 6-year-old!”

“Does it really matter why at this point?” I ask. “Don’t you think you should remove the foreign object from your foot before worrying about who is responsible? Also, you have to be responsible for your own feet. Surely, you can’t blame me for where YOU decide to tread!”

In frustration he hangs up.

A few days later he has stepped on another one of these pins and I receive another one of his phone calls.

It occurs three more times in the proceeding weeks. Each time I am not home and each time he phones me on my cell to freak out and demand that something be done. Short of ripping up the carpet, I don’t know what more can be done.

He doesn’t know either, but he does know that with every pin that punctures his foot, his resentment for me builds, as does his fear of entering the living room. His god, the TV, is in there, though, so I’m not too worried about it. It isn’t like he can avoid his place of worship.

A few weeks of this and he tells me he can’t take it anymore. He does not think he can survive another pinning. And even though I have not admitted (and never will) to any culpability in the matter, he is still suspicious that the scatterbrained clumsiness I am notorious for is responsible for the pins. Because of this, he thinks it’s only fair I offer up some sort of restitution. Failing that, it would give him great satisfaction to see ME step on one of these pins and collapse to the ground writhing in pain, develop an infection and possibly die.

I tell him that is a terrible thing to wish on anyone, especially his wife. And as punishment, he's left me with no choice but to put The Curse of the Pin on him.

“You already DID!!!” he sputters.

I suggest to him that if it was me who kept stepping on pins I’d start wearing slippers. I would also avoid the area where I suspected the pins were strewn.

For some weird reason, even though it fills him with dread, he cannot keep himself away from the vicinity of the pin carnage. This perverse fascination is in fact why he keeps stepping on the pins in the first place. Look and ye shall find.

Eventually he does listen to me and takes to wearing slippers. He also makes an effort to stay away from the area in question, but he simply can’t do it. Nevertheless for another week he is fine. No more pinnings. It seems he has managed to retrieve all the wayward pins with his foot.

“See?” I brighten, “something positive has come out of this. Now the kids won’t step on a pin because you’ve retrieved them all with your foot! You’re a good dad!”

My words of praise do nothing to dissolve his simmering rage, which he’s been trying to control since I put the Curse of the Pin on him. Although he openly scoffs at such things, he isn’t fooling me -- not with his “controlled” rage or his disbelief in my abilities. Secretly, he isn’t so sure my curses aren’t real. 

And sure enough, a few mornings later he wakes up with a stabbing ache in his back. This is nothing new, mind you, and as a rule I more or less ignore his physical complaints. He worries and complains about back pain incessantly because when he was 19 he got into a bad car accident and fractured his spine. His doctors at the time warned that as he got older he may start to experience chronic lumbar pain and other associated symptoms.

As a result, John is constantly on high alert to ANY discomfort in his back no matter how minor or imagined. This time, however, he says it is “different” and excruciating enough that he can’t go to work.

For the rest of the day he lay on the couch moaning about how he needs to go to the doctor and get some painkillers, but he never makes a move to actually do this.

It is not until later in the night at maybe 9 or 10 o’clock that I get another one of John’s by now customary phone calls while I’m at work. From his pressured tone and rapid breathing I know immediately this has something to do with pins.

I am correct.

It seems John had reached around to scratch where his back hurt and in doing so pricked his finger on something sharp. There was blood. He nearly fainted when he realized what it was.

It was the tip of a pin.

You have no idea how disappointed I am that he never went to see that doctor about his “ailment”.


Every time I think of this whole pin situation I am thrown into a new fit of hysterics. As a consequence, John has stopped speaking to me.  He is beside himself with  anger that I’m not taking it more seriously. He says with utter conviction that if he hadn’t felt the pin when he did, he probably would be dead right now.

Ignoring the fact he had wished figurative death on me only a few days ago, I laugh and say, “Don’t be absurd. You can’t die from being stabbed in the back with a pin. A knife, sure, but a pin? I don’t think so, there Pincushion”.

I’ve now taken to calling him Pincushion.

Saturday, October 24, 2015

The Doctor at my Window

I stand at the window and watch three overly confident male physicians strutting below. They walk like the Sultan of Brunei, ridiculous, repulsive little men with big egos and an infinite capacity for self-gratification and entitlement. 

Their confidence is derived from a boys club of debauchery, deception, exclusive opportunity, inherited privilege, an engorged sense of superiority, astounding hypocrisy and the celebrity-like worship of a misguided, misinformed populace, not to mention a seemingly endless supply of female insecurity that fuels their rutting preoccupations. Swine.

The differences between the paltry Sultan Hassanal Bolkiah and the semen-driven doctors are ones of mere degree. The Sultan is at the extreme end of wealth, indulgence, self-glorification, human exploitation, greed, lechery, indifferent cruelty, contrived intelligence and spiritual emptiness. He is purely a temporal animal who will return to dust and disappear into nothingness once he dies, which hopefully is as pleasant an affair as the deaths of those who no doubt will be lost to torture, stoning, complications of punitive amputations and brutal floggings under his rule after he helpfully introduced Sharia law to Brunei, laws which he and his equally repugnant, pedo-looking, herpetic brother are themselves guilty of breaking on a regular basis. Sadistic pigs.

As for the doctors, perhaps "sadistic pig" is a bit harsh, but "rutting swine" seems accurate enough. All three of the doctors I am currently surveying from my window are married, but none are particularly discreet about their frequent romps with infidelity or in any way ashamed of the lives their more or less open cheating has negatively impacted. 


If you're going to indiscriminately fuck a bunch of women, at least don't be married with a gaggle of kids when you do it. Don't do it when you've taken marriage vows and don't do it when you've taken a Hippocratic oath not to use your position of authority to prey on the vulnerable. And if you can't manage any of that, at least be upfront with the young ladies you're violating so they know exactly what they are getting into and don't harbor any illusions of happily-ever-after with you.






In addition to devastated families, all this pathological infidelity and casually tossed aside, single-use female bodies has been responsible for at least two suicide attempts, as well as countless psychological problems and the occasional jealousy-induced criminal act. Although, I guess if you were the kind of man who stopped to consider how your actions might devastate another person's life you would not be indiscriminately fucking a bunch of people like an insentient Energizer Dildo on permanent recharge in the first place.

"It's amazing how these guys get away with what they get away with in this town, " I turn to Belinda, thoroughly disgusted at the mere sight of these men everyone else is so smitten with (other than of course the people whose lives they'e ruined, but even they seem remarkably forgiving).

Belinda happens to be one of the smitten ones, which I suppose is part of the reason I like to comment on them, just to needle her. It injects some adrenaline into an otherwise paperclip and blunt pencil kind of a day, where only casual business attire is allowed, not like a blue jeans Friday. 

It's the kind of day where the biggest catastrophe is that Lenore used water straight from the tap to fill the Keurig yet again, even though she's been told repeatedly to use the purified water from the cooler. This infuriates Belinda: "So help me, if that cute water-boy stops coming in here because of damn Lenore making management think we don't need weekly water deliveries anymore, I'll KILL HER MYSELF!"

Basically my contempt for a philandering penis with an equally ineffectual medical degree is distracting Belinda and saving Lenore's life. You're welcome Lenore. 

"Look at them preening like ugly peacocks who have no idea how hideous they are," I continue with as much disdain as I can possibly muster, "I hope one of these incessantly squawking crows dive-bombs the one in the middle, your friend, Dr. Suna". 

I don't look at Belinda but I sense I'm getting under her skin. This particular "lady doctor" is one of her favorites. They have a good, flirty working relationship that makes me want to stab my hand with one of the plastic forks I keep on my desk any time I'm in the same room as one of their giggly interactions. 

Belinda takes a deep, steadying inspiration before addressing me.

"That's because you're a man hater. I find him amusing. He's funny and smart and knows his stuff. He goes out of his way to answer questions and makes his patients feel at ease. Who cares what he does in his personal life."

This is a refrain I've heard many times and I don't agree with any of it, which Belinda knows. I, however, decide to ignore the "what a person does in his personal life has no bearing on his professional life" non-sequitur. And I'm more or less desensitized to the bogus "man-hater" label, so I should ignore that, too. It's a bullshit label anyway, but as I've gotten older and wiser, I've taken the stance that if it keeps assholes away from me then I will no longer look this gift horse in the mouth. Serendipity.

In truth, the only thing I really hate is redundant, scripted speech that everyone mindlessly delivers like dumb-struck lines in a poorly rehearsed, ill-conceived episode of Keeping up with the Kardashians. It's only more absurdity and contrived reality, but without the Frankenstein-esque plastic enhancements and over-compensated playhouses that gobble up an unfair share of space and resources. 

The Lamar Odom sleazebags in this contrived reality are named Bill, Bob or Joe, use crystal meth cut with rat poison, a.k.a. the poor man's coke, and get their illicit sex not from fancy legal brothels in Nevada, but from strung-out single mothers with deadened souls, who have lost their kids and fill the void with IV drug use and degrading sex acts at $10 a pop, performed in darkened back alleys or bed-bug infested motels that rent by the minute

With these bitter ruminations running through my mind, I correct Belinda, saying, "I'm not a man-hater, Belinda, only a hater of despicable behavior. It's not my fault most of that despicable behavior happens to come from men. Don't blame the observer."

Belinda gives me her signature look, which says she doesn't believe or agree with a word I'm saying.

But this is how we do things so I solider on: "Also, why does Suna always have to come in here bragging about what a great life he's having with dramatic tales of his travels and conquests? Shut up. I'm already not enjoying my life over here, I don't need some pretentious douche-bag rubbing it in with one of his drive-by self-aggrandizing stories."

Then, as if by cosmic cue, Dr. Suna comes slithering into the room like the snake he is. Belinda glances at me in alarm, worried he might have heard us talking, not that she would have anything to worry about. I'm the ONLY one voicing discontent with the status quo.

Besides, he doesn't know he's Dr. Suna. Granted, my pet name for him is not very original, but it makes me laugh almost every time I use it. Sultan H-Ass-Anal, Lamar O-Dumb and Dr. Suna aren't the only ones who need their cheap thrills. My form of cheap thrill, however, doesn't cost anything and will not spread disease or further unravel the moral and intellectual fabric of civilized society.  And anyway, the name Suna is fitting. He is a backwards, lax sphincter and portal for fecal matter.

In any event, he must sense I don't care for his stench and bypasses me completely as if I don't exist, going straight for Belinda. He is all ingratiating smiles, with a "favor" to ask, but first he wants to show off pictures from his latest trip: kite-boarding with his Stepford wife, Mrs. Doctor Suna, in Venezuela. You see? I am an equal opportunity "hater". I dislike shitty men AND their consenting victims. 

Unfortunately (for Belinda, who as it turns out is a non-consenting victim), the first picture that appears is a close-up of a Pap smear in progress. Dr. Suna laughs off the mistake and jokes, "Oops, gyne-porn". He then continues to swipe through the pics as if it's no big deal that he's just traumatized Belinda's eyes for the rest of her life, or that he's violated some unnamed woman's right to privacy. 

He keeps swiping until he comes to the images of his wife risking her life surfing rough tropical waters, apparently for his viewing pleasure. As Belinda struggles to restore her composure after being eye-raped with that unexpected visual, she stammers, "That looks dangerous!"

Dr. Suna jokes again that this latest wife might be quiet but she's a daredevil; willing to try anything, that one. "She'd surprise you", he says with a salacious grin. Anyway, if she did die in some freak kiting accident, not a problem, he goes on. He likes to "trade in for a new one every 7 or 8 years" anyhow, so bonus! Saves him messy divorce proceedings. Suna appears quite pleased with how funny he thinks he's being, oblivious to how uncomfortable he is making Belinda, who laughs politely but who I can see is mildly horrified by this entire situation. 

I imagine she is reconsidering right about now that I may not be off the mark regarding Dr. Suna after all. Pustule.

As for me, in addition to being happy Suna himself continues to prove my low opinion of him is correct, I'm also happy my unfriendly "hater" persona pays off once again. Of the two of us, Belinda is the only one with the closeup of some stranger's prolapsed cervix forever burned in her mind. Not a pleasant thing to be carrying around in your head. My own conscience is clear.

Dr. Suna mercifully finishes up his slide show, asks for the favor he could have done himself, and  turns to leave when Lenore's best friend, Henrietta, comes bustling in.

She blocks the doorway so Suna can't easily leave and asks him if he is interested in sponsoring her for the women's shelter fundraiser she is helping organize. She understandably assumes he is a perfect fit for such a fundraiser since women's issues are his speciality, not to mention the thing that has provided him with wealth, prestige and privilege. Even more to the point, it's the thing that's given him a sultan-like status in this community, reminiscent of his anal-twin-flame there, Sultan H-Ass-Anal Bolkiah, and a free pass to fuck around without consequence as much as his Viagra-controlled erection allows. As such, you'd think he'd want to give back somehow.

You'd think that, but you'd be wrong. I man like this does not humble himself. It has to be done for him, either through divine intervention or by another more advanced animal on a stronger branch of the evolutionary tree. Now, if Henrietta, Belinda and everyone else around here looked beyond superficial nonsense, they would know this intuitively and NOT AT ALL assume Suna, being the piece of shit doctor that he is, would humble himself. 

Sure enough, much to my smug satisfaction, he answers Henrietta with, "Women's shelter? What about men? Is there a shelter for men who get beat up by women?"

He makes this asshole statement in the context of a recent murder/suicide of a domestically abused mother at the end of her rope, who had just left her violent husband with their severely autistic son in tow, no support, no money, no job, and nowhere to go other than a shelter she couldn't get into because it was full. This woman may have even been his patient.

In light of the above, Henrietta is shocked into silence at Suna's response, an unusual situation for her, normally a total blabbermouth. 

With Henrietta's uncharacteristic silence, Suna realizes he might have taken what he later explains is another one of his hilarious "jokes" too far. He shrugs and throws a crumpled $20 bill at Henrietta, which as far as I'm concerned is no more charitable than had he flung a nail clipping at her head. His 20 bucks is that inconsequential to him. If anything, when this asshole "gives" any amount of money away he's doing something for HIMSELF, not any one else, certainly not any one in need. It causes him NO hardship whatsoever.

Suna trounces off without a care after this, shoving past Henrietta, who looks a little lost now. After he's gone, she sheepishly admits she had expected him to give her at least $100, was counting on it.

In renewed disgust, I dig through my Old Mother Hubbard purse, and to my surprise manage to scrape together $36.85 to give to Henrietta. At the same time, Belinda digs through her slightly fiscally healthier purse and between us, and with Suna's pathetic $20, Henrietta leaves with more than the $100 she had come for. 

I look at Belinda expectantly.

"Okay, okay," she says in partial surrender, "you win. He's an anus...but I still like him".

Without another word I return to my desk, to the fork, and stab myself. The fork bends against the back of my hand and a couple of the tines fling off, hitting me painlessly in the face before falling dramatically to the floor.

Belinda watches my sorry display of self-harm, unmoved, and drying asks, "Feel better?"

I don't look at her as I reach down to pick up the broken-off fork bits and say, "I think I've made my point."